


Watch closely

by Havokftw



Series: A penny for your thoughts. Five bucks if they're dirty. [2]
Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Beads, Blue Balls, Courtship, Dildos, Double Anal Penetration, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gift Giving, M/M, Sex Toys, Sugar Daddy, Teasing, Vibrators, Voyeurism, Webcam/Video Chat Sex, camboy Lee Jihoon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-26 10:06:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12555048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Havokftw/pseuds/Havokftw
Summary: Seungcheol get distracted with adult responsibilities and...pays the price.





	Watch closely

Mingyu’s never late to work—even if he’s commuting half way across the city in grid lock traffic, he always arrives punctually at the office. Just because his boss happens to be one of his closest friends, doesn’t mean he takes liberties at work.

He’s a professional.

So when he walks into the office on Friday morning and Seungcheol grabs the lapels of Mingyu’s suit and uses them to slam him against the wall, Mingyu is a little confused.

He doesn't quite shriek it, but it's a close thing.

"Hyung," Mingyu says slowly, "are you okay?"

Seungcheol's eyes burn white-hot, arm across Mingyu’s throat in what feels very much like a constructive dismissal lawsuit waiting to happen.

“Mingyu—I need you to think _very—fucking—carefully.”_ Seungcheol says through gritted teeth.

“Okay.” Mingyu says, puffing out his cheeks comically and widening his eyes.

Seungcheol pulls back far enough to look at him, then asks very slowly. “Where did you put the coffee cup that was sitting on my desk?”

Mingyu doesn’t say anything for a moment, only squints at him as if he were insane, “Uhh—I don’t-“

“Don’t say that Mingyu.” Seungcheol interrupts, shaking his head in firm denial. “Don’t say you don’t know. That will make me very, very _angry_.”

The growl on the end makes the office intern (who just walked in for some signatures) eye them suspiciously, focusing immediately on the way they’re both breathing heavily, how Seungcheol has Mingyu pinned to the wall with a knee between his thighs. Oh, and then she's  _judging_  them. Seungcheol reluctantly lets Mingyu go in the face of her terrible judgment. 

He quickly signs off her papers and waits till she backs out of the office, before pinning Mingyu to the wall once more.

“Mingyu—the cup. _Think_!” Seungcheol commands. There's a tic in his jaw that Mingyu is intimately familiar with. “Clear your head— _which shouldn’t be hard for you_ —and think about the coffee cup that was sitting on my desk yesterday. It was a small cup—with a number written on the side.”

“But I don’t know, Hyung. Honest.” Mingyu says a bit breathless, probably from the steely forearm so recently crushing his windpipe. “Maybe the cleaner trashed it?”

“We have a cleaner?” Seungcheol asks, with a tone of dismayed realization.

“Uhh—yeah. They come in after hours. How do you think this place stays so clean?”

“Aw—dammit. It could be anywhere by now!” Seungcheol huffs. He releases Mingyu once more and stalks over to the large floor to ceiling window at the other end of the room.

He’s seventeen floors up, but even from this distance he can see the front house of the coffee shop. He realises he’s staring out the window forlornly, and it’s stupid and it's pathetic and he should have just written that number down immediately!

“What’s the big deal?” Mingyu asks, stepping up to the window too.

Seungcheol closes his eyes briefly. “It had this guy’s number on it. A gorgeous guy from the coffee shop across the road.” He admits.

“He works there? Why don’t you just—go over and ask him for his number again?” Mingyu asks, smothering the awkward moment with hopeful enthusiasm.

Seungcheol scrubs his face harshly with the palm of his hand. “I can’t.”

“Why not?” Mingyu says, from somewhere behind him.

Seungcheol presses his head against the glass window, sighs heavily and watches it fog out. “I’m shy.”

Mingyu doesn’t even _try_ to hold his laughter. There's a long period of hacking, thigh slapping, some raspy breathing and then silence.

Seungcheol thinks Mingyu may have  _actually_  died, but he’s not turning away from the window to check.

But no, there's a great hacking cough and Mingyu re-joins the land of the living. “Oh god, that’s too funny.” Mingyu wheezes.

“I’m being serious.” Seungcheol grunts, thudding his head against the glass in disappointment.  

The look Mingyu throws him is somewhere between amused and embarrassed. Embarrassed for _him_.

“ _Hyung_ —you head board meetings all the time. I’ve seen you talk in public, I’ve even seen you talk a guy down off a ledge after you fired him! How come some guy in a coffee shop has you by the balls?” Mingyu says, the undercurrent of a laugh still in his tone.

“I don’t know Mingyu, but you should see him. He’s something else.” He says, turning away from the window, and from his thoughts.

* * *

 

Seungcheol means to stop in the coffee shop at lunchtime, but then he’s called away to Seoul that afternoon for an urgent meeting.

He ends up spending the entire weekend there, hammering out the details of an acquisition. The opposing corporation was trying to bullshit him, and he was trying to convey to them that they could not possibly bullshit him because he was unbullshittable.

By the time the negotiations ended and he was on his way back to Busan, it was Sunday night. Seungcheol was so exhausted that he decided to bypass the office, and thus the coffee shop altogether and go back to his hotel to snag a few hours of sleep.

There would be time to grab coffee and get Jihoon’s number again in the morning.

It— _doesn’t_ go as planned.

It pretty much goes downhill from the moment he enters the coffee shop.

“Hi. Can I take your order?” The guy behind the counter says as soon as Seungcheol approaches.

His name badge reads ‘Seungkwan’ and Seungkwan is clearly helping himself to _a lot_ of coffee; he’s smiling too cheerfully for 9.30 am on a wet and miserable Monday morning.  

“Yes. I mean— _no_. I’m not _really_ here for coffee.” Seungcheol explains. He rubs a hand over his face and smothers what wants to be a laugh because this is going to go  _so well_.

“I’m here for Jihoon. Is—he here?” Seungcheol asks hopefully.

He doesn't know what shows on his face, but it makes Seungkwan raise an eyebrow.

“ _Jihoon_?” Seungkwan repeats, his smile flickers uncertainly. 

“Yeah—Jihoon. I know he works here. I saw him here last week—little guy, about yay high.” He gestures.

“Who’s asking?” Seungkwan says.

Seungcheol takes a minute to look at the guy. He’s got the coffee house cap, badge and apron, but is wearing a uniform a different shade to Jihoon’s.

Maybe he’s a manager? Or a trainee Barista, most likely. That, or just plain _fucking nosey._

“ _I’m_ asking.” Seungcheol says, unable to mask the impatience in his voice. “The man standing right in front of you.”

Seungkwan narrows his eyes suspiciously at Seungcheol. He doesn't comment on any of that but he clearly wants to. His suspicious eyes say he wants to comment on it, and that there may be a hot espresso hurled at Seungcheol’s face.

Seungcheol sighs. “Look—I just want to talk to him. He gave me his number a few days ago and I lost it.” He explains, then has an inspiring thought. “Wait—maybe _you_ could give me his number? And if you could not tell Jihoon you gave it to me—that would be _great_.” He says, cause the last thing he wants is for Jihoon to think he threw his number away.

Then is sort of dawns on him how amazingly _bad_ that sounds. He’s definitely giving off creepy and suspicious—crazy stalker vibes right now.

Seungcheol tries to look harmless. Which involves a pinched brow and a lot of grinning.

On second thought—that’s not a good look for him. He must look like a demented lunatic.

Seungkwan must think so too—cause the next second he’s pointing an accusing finger at Seungcheol and yelling really fucking loud.

“Nice try Buddy! You’re one of the pervy creeps who watch him online!”

“No, no!” Seungcheol says, flailing his arms. “I’m—well—actually, I guess I am.” Which, on the whole, is probably not the most reassuring thing for Seungcheol to say right now.

Seungkwan’s face turns bright red with livid fury. “I knew it! I knew this camera gig would come back to bite him in the ass one day!”

Seungcheol tries to reassure him, “No—you don’t understand. He _actually_ gave me his number!”

Another employee comes around the corner a second later, half-way through Seungkwan’s monologue about how Seungcheol should be ashamed of himself, and tries to calm the situation down.

“Boo—what the hell? Stop yelling at the customers!” The tall man with long hair scraped back into a ponytail hisses.

Seungkwan launches himself across the counter, scattering coffee cups and bean displays everywhere. He grabs the broom from the other employee’s hand and brandishes it at Seungcheol.

“Get out you pervert! Get out!” He shouts, caught between anger and nervousness.

“Seriously—just listen.” Seungcheol says, holding his hand up in a placating gesture. “I don’t have ulterior motives. Though your protective instincts are admirable.”

“Jihoon’s my friend! I’m not gonna let you molest him!” Seungkwan yells. He tries to take several swings at Seungcheol with the broom, cursing as the other employee tries to wrestle it out of his hands.

Seungcheol isn’t going to feel ashamed about trying to preserve his own life by running away.

All in all—it’s not a great start to his week.

* * *

 

When Seungcheol gets to his hotel room that night, he springs out the laptop in record time and sets it up in the desk.

The minute he logs into his account and navigates to Busan-Kitten’s page, he receives an unhelpful notice.

**_You have been blocked from accessing this user’s videos._ **

“Blocked?” Seungcheol gasps.

_What? Why?_

Undeterred, he sets up a new account, picking a username that’s still identifiably _him._

**_Footlong subway2_ **

He navigates through the website to Jihoon’s/Woozi’s profile again, and enters the live stream already in progress. A familiar heat already beginning to sizzle under his skin.

The video loads to the image of Jihoon kneeling on the bed, a large vibrating wand in his hand. “Where should I stick this?” He whispers to the camera.

_Oh—yeah. That’s never going to get old._

Seungcheol doesn’t wait to read the stream of filth coming from the other users, he hits the private chat button flashing in the corner.

The monitor displays a loading screen for a full minute, before a message pops up.

**_Your request for a private chat has been denied._ **

Seungcheol blinks at the message for a full minute. “What? Why?”

The messages fades and he’s returned to the live stream, where Jihoon is standing up close to the camera, rolling the wand over the bulge in his panties.

“I need somebody to tell me what to do with this. Who’s up for some fun tonight?” Jihoon purrs.

Seungcheol hits the private chat icon again, only for the same message to appear on the loading screen.

**_Your request for a private chat has been denied._ **

After his third attempt, the live stream cuts abruptly. He breathes a sigh of relief; it looks like he’s getting his private chat after all-

“Stop requesting a private session you dick—you’re interrupting my stream!” Jihoon snaps as soon as the screen loads, leaving Seungcheol silently stunned.

“But—why was my account blocked?” Seungcheol stutters out, momentarily cowed.

Jihoon scowls. “Cause I blocked it.”

“But—why?”

“Cause I don’t want to chat with you!” He hisses.

“But—why?” _But why? That’s your only conversational contribution?_

“Cause you’re a jerk.” Jihoon grits out.

Seungcheol’s brain is momentarily paralyzed as it simultaneously a) considers all the reasons Jihoon would have to be angry with him, and b) pictures Jihoon using that large pink Sailor Moon wand in his hand on himself.

He isn’t sure how long his brain has been offline, but it has definitely been noticeable judging by the way Jihoon has crossed his arms and is tapping his fingers impatiently.

Seungcheol blinks as he tries to regain his conversational bearings and drag his mind out of the gutter.

“Is this because I approached you in the coffee shop?” Seungcheol asks, and Jihoon scoffs—uncrossing his arms and stepping to the side.

Seungcheol’s gaze follows him till he moves off screen. The feed hasn’t been cut off yet—so Seungcheol suspects Jihoon’s still there—just wishing to stay out of sight.

“Look—It was coincidence, I swear. I had no idea you worked there.” Seungcheol explains pitifully.

Jihoon doesn't respond to that at all, so Seungcheol continues. “I work across the road—I always buy my coffee from there. It’s not like I was stalking you or something. And—If I made you uncomfortable—why did you give me your number?” He asks the empty room across the screen.

He’s greeted with nothing but silence.

Seungcheol sighs heavily.

Just great. Guess there’s nothing left for him to do but….“I’m sorry, alright. I didn’t mean to upset you—I guess I’ll just stay out of your way.” He murmurs dejectedly.

He moves the mouse to hover over the ‘end chat’ icon, ready to click when Jihoon’s voice pipes up,

“You didn’t call!”

Seungcheol blinks. “What?”

Jihoon reappears in front of the camera, now wearing shorts and a faded band T with ‘The Clash’ printed on the front. “I gave you my number like a week ago and you never called.” He says glumly.

He's standing with his arms crossed over his chest and he looks more upset than angry, so Seungcheol figures he's got a chance if he plays his cards right.

“It was four days ago actually.” He says—which is essentially him taking said chance and hurling it out the window.

“Well I fucking rounded up—okay!” Jihoon snaps. There’s a minute of huffy silence before he continues. “And that doesn’t change the fact that you had my number for four days and still didn’t call.”

Seungcheol almost laughs, but contains himself. Jihoon already looks edgy enough and Seungcheol doesn't want to push him. “Listen, I’m sorry—I lost the number. The cleaner through the cup away and—I was called away on business over the weekend.”

Jihoon huffs, as though this were the most unreasonable excuse he’s ever heard of.

“I’m not making excuses, that’s literally what happened. Then today, when I finally went over to ask—one of your co-workers got the wrong idea and attacked me with a broom.”

Jihoon snorts. “Yeah— _sure_. Like I’ve never heard _that_ before.”

Seungcheol makes a face. “Seriously? Your co-workers chase away admirers with brooms a lot do they?”

Jihoon lifts one narrow shoulder in a shrug. “Whatever. I don’t even care.” He mumbles, rather petulant.

“Oh _really_? Is that you blocked me? Cause you care so _little_.” Seungcheol chuckles. But then he has to stop and stow the sarcasm for a minute, because Jihoon’s face goes a bright shade of red.

“Oh fuck you—I can’t believe I thought you were hot.”

“Really? Hot?” Seungcheol grins, the warmth of knowing the attraction isn’t one sided, pooling in his belly.

“I’m blocking this profile too.” Jihoon states, tapping away at his keyboard.

“No—, please wait.” Seungcheol pleads frantically, and before he can think better of it, blurts, "Give me a chance Jihoon.”

That gives Jihoon a visible pause, but it must have been the right thing to say, because his angry look sort of wavers, and then collapses in on itself. “Don’t—don’t use my real name—you haven’t earned it.”

Seungcheol winces. “Okay—I’m sorry. _Woozi, please._ Let me make it up to you.”

“Make it up to me? Good luck with that.” Jihoon says dispassionately, and ends the live stream.

"What the fuck," Seungcheol huffs, tossing his headset on the desk.

_Dammit. Dammit. Dammit._

Why can’t he have nice things!

He doesn’t know how—but he’s going to fix this.

* * *

 

When Jihoon arrives on Tuesday afternoon to start his shift at the coffee shop, there is a massive bouquet of roses dwarfing the side counter.

The riot of colour stands out in the otherwise dreary shop, its exuberance contrasting sharply with the wooden floor-boards and ‘up-cycled’ shit Jisoo was trying to pass as furniture.

Jihoon stands at the entrance, shaking rain off his jacket and eyeing the bouquet curiously. “What are those?”

“They’re flowers.” Soonyoung says, demonstrating his unparalleled talent for stating the obvious. “And the little card on the front says they’re for _you_.”

Jihoon darts a look around the shop for clarification, but Seungkwan is covering an inexplicable smile and Jisoo isn't even bothering to hide his amusement about the situation.

Jihoon turns his eyes to Jeonghan, who can always be relied upon for over-protective big brother instincts, but Jeonghan just gives him a look that says, 'you brought this on yourself' and goes back to making coffee.

Jihoon eyes the peach coloured roses suspiciously, as do most of his co-workers. He approaches the counter hesitantly, reaching over and flipping the card clipped to the tissue paper. It is _indeed_ for him, and he can guess from whom.

He tears open the envelop and opens the small card that slips out, which simply reads:

_I’m sorry._

_Please?_

_Seungcheol x_

Jihoon’s skin prickles with goose bumps when he realises that is Foot-long subway’s name. His _real_ name.

Jihoon doesn't blush. He _never_ blushes, ever. But he does feel a tad warmer than he did before.

“Who’s it from?” Soonyoung asks, peering over his shoulder.

“Just—a friend I did a favour for.” Jihoon deflects, batting absently at the air. He's not sure how well anyone buys it; it's a terrible lie, regardless.

Jeonghan barks out a single, sarcastic laugh.

“Is that what we’re calling your internet fans now? Friends you do favours for. _That_ escalated quickly.” Jeonghan drawls, casting a look over his shoulder. He’s standing behind the counter, peppering cinnamon on cappuccino foam and quirks a knowing brow at Jihoon.

If he notices the withering look Jihoon sends his way, he ignores it.

Miraculously, nobody demands he talk about it, for which Jihoon is planning to be eternally grateful. He feels like an idiot for involving his co-workers in this already, and he's not sure how he's going to be able to face this _Seungcheol_ guy again without storming out of the shop like a stroppy teenager.

Jihoon bats away everyone’s lingering curiosity by picking up the bouquet and carrying it out of sight into the staff room.

He loses a little time staring down at the luscious blooms, inhaling the heady scent they emanate.

Jihoon never had a real great love of flowers, they were pretty and he appreciated their fragrance and appearance, sure, but he was really never bowled over by them. But this—he’s embarrassed to admit it, but he's overcome by the whole thing.

Well—he did practically challenge the guy to make it up to him.

He mostly started the cam-boy gig for some extra cash. As a full-time college student, it’s the easiest way to make money if you have a laptop, spare time, an active libido and aren’t repulsed by the idea of men jerking off watching you touch yourself.

Granted— _that_ took some time getting used to, and he’s still not sure he _is_ used to it.

In a way, it’s just nice to know what he got teased about at school, makes guys cream their pants now.  Kind of like a power trip.  And the cutesy clothes and thigh highs—while not exactly his style—look really good on him.

Don’t get him wrong, he wouldn’t be caught dead wearing thigh highs in public—hell no. There is a clear distinction here: Woozi wears the thigh highs—Jihoon sticks to his sweats, thank you very much.

He finds the differences between the two sides of himself make somethings easier to bear. Becoming someone else lends a clean simplicity to the whole exchange. It pulls Jihoon further from it, spreading a stage out between him and his audience. It gives him distance, control.

He can’t say he enjoys every aspect of it, but the reality is that nothing can give Jihoon more pleasure than his independence, than being in control of his own life. This is the best way for him to keep that. 

The money is good, the hours are short, and unlike his job at the coffee house, he doesn’t have to be bound down by things like schedules, bosses, background checks, or any kind of rules meant to cage. The cam-boy gig is his to say yes or say no to—every night, every patron. All he has to do in exchange for that unfettered freedom is ‘chat’ with some stranger for an hour.

A few of his friends had expressed concerns when he told them, but he assured them it was temporary.

He never expected to get good at it—he never expected to rake in the most viewers, (not that Jihoon is tracking the numbers obsessively, or anything.) and he definitely didn’t expect for someone to take _notice_ of _him_.

Foot-long subway was _unusual_ , to say the least.

That isn’t really a positive in Jihoon’s book. He prefers predictable to anything else. But the guys chatter was sort of a sweet unusual, if he had to call it something.

Foot-long subway didn’t jump straight into fantasies about choking Jihoon while he fucked him, or making his eyes water with the length of his dick or smearing hot come on Jihoon’s face. He’d asked reasonably curious questions and complimented Jihoon like they were on a fucking date.

And his voice— _oh fuck_. His accent was rough and alluring, like silk slipped over charcoal. Jihoon could have talked to him _forever_.

Then in person—foot-long subway had _not_ looked at all like how Jihoon had imagined. _Not at all._

Usually when Jihoon touches himself, he tries not to picture the men jerking off at the other end of his feed; they’ve sent him pictures occasionally and it’s always very disappointing.  But listening to that man’s warm smoky voice whisper filth to him, Jihoon couldn’t help but build an equally appealing image of the guy as he fucked himself on that vibrator.  

With a voice like that, it was nearly impossible for Jihoon to imagine an ugly face.

Then it turned out the imagined version of the guy was a poor substitute for the real deal—because _damn_.

The guy was smoking hot.

Hot on a scale that ranked ‘A+, 10/10, ‘would ride and also bring home to meet the family’ to SDFLKSDJFSDLFKJSLDKF.

And, okay, Jihoon had always asserted that he didn’t have a  _type_  because that’s just so shallow and stereotypical, but damn—that man was a beautiful mess of contradictions. He was tall and built, undeniably handsome with slicked black hair and a sharp jaw line, but there was something delicate about his lips and doe eyes. 

The charcoal grey dress pants he was wearing looked like they'd been perfectly tailored for him—they probably had—just like the suit jacket that sat smoothly across his broad shoulders.

Jihoon had gone a little out of his comfort zone giving him his number.

Okay— _a lot_ out of his comfort zone. He’s not allowed. They’re not supposed to share personal information with the patrons, mostly for security reasons. It’s one of the websites few, but strictest rules.

He’d regretted it immediately after; agonizing that he’d just drawn a map to his butthole and handed it to a potential stalker/pervert. Or something to that affect.

He spent the first day anxiously dreading the guys call, the second day less anxious and more anticipatory, the third a little confused and when day four came—he was just plain _insulted_.  

Just fucking typical. He’d given that guy his fucking personal number and—he didn’t call him. He didn’t even _text_!

Jihoon channelled some of his irritation into his music, penning a few lyrics about an international businessman with an over inflated ego and an ultra violent murder-suicide.

For most of that week he’d been less attentive than usual with his on camera persona, always wondering in the back of his mind if the guy was going to show up on the chat.

By the end of the weekend, Jihoon had pretty much settled into a morose acceptance. That is what his life had come to, being rejected by some pervy loser who logs into cam-boy websites for sexual gratification. Awesome.

Resolving himself to just damn well get over it, Jihoon had angrily blocked foot-long subway’s account, feeling stupid and hurt, and stupid for _being_ hurt.

* * *

 

The whole—everyone minding their own business—lasts until Jihoon’s break time.

“What are you going to do about your creepy stalker? Should I be worried about your safety?” Seungkwan says bluntly. For such an artful person, he’s remarkably direct. Jihoon has always liked that about him. Or he did, at least, until he cornered him by the washroom and started lecturing him about professionalism in the workplace.

“He’s not – “ Jihoon begins.

“How did he even recognise you,” Seungkwan interrupts, talking over him. “I thought you didn’t show your face in those streams?”

Jihoon blushes. “I don’t—not usually.”

“But you did this time.” Seungkwan interjects. It’s not a question.

Jihoon casts a glance at the floor, scuffing his converse against the tile. “Yeah. Just that one time.”

Seungkwan makes a face of great disapproval. “And what’s this about you giving him your _number_? That was pretty stupid Jihoonie. Dangerous—in fact.” His tone is not unkind, just matter-of-fact.

“I’ve got it under control.” Jihoon retorts, trying to ignore the sting of Seungkwan’s assessment.

Seungkwan’s just looking out for him, he knows. He’s got a point, of course, though in Jihoon’s defence, the likelihood of stumbling across the one guy he showed his face to in a city full of people should have been marginally slim.

“Well—I hope so. You shouldn’t let your guard down just cause the guy’s hot.” Seungkwan says with an eyebrow wiggle. His comment hits a little too close to home and he probably knows it.

Jihoon ensures the sound he makes in response to that is _derisive_. “Pfft!”

Seungkwan gives him a little knowing look. “Are you saying you don't find him at all attractive?”

“No.” Jihoon says, refusing to meet Seungkwan’s eyes. “I mean, yes, he's attractive, if you like ridiculous shoulders and doe eyes and those stupid, full lips—”

Seungkwan smiles. “Yeah, personally, I hate all those qualities in a guy. Not to mention the accent and the muscles and his thick fingers—”

Jihoon sighs and squints at him. “Didn’t you chase him outside with a broom?”

Seungkwan looks as close to mortified as he could ever come. “I panicked—okay!” He huffs, throwing his hands in the air.

Jihoon laughs out loud at the image of Seungkwan wielding a broom with intent, picturing it as he ties his apron and heads out to resume his shift.

* * *

 

There is nothing in this world Jihoon hates quite as much as the ice-cold water of his dorm room shower. He’s already paying an arm and a leg just to live here—the least thing dorm maintenance can do is turn up the heating in winter!

He stands in his tiny shower, feeling the frozen spray trickle and spit out of the prehistoric pipes, and tries not to punch the tile.

Once he’s towelled off and returned to a less miserable temperature, he walks over to his sliver of a closet and thinks about what to wear; deciding on a pair of shorts and a soft cropped sweater that nicely shows off his stomach.

Tuesday isn’t a regular streaming day for Busan-kitten—but Jihoon had messaged Seungcheol privately on his account and is expecting an instant private chat—so he needs to look the part.

“Cropped fluffy sweater today, huh? Must be someone special.”

Jihoon lets out a long sigh, wistfully considering all the ways he could disembowel his intruding room-mate if he were a lesser person. 

 “Speaking of clothing,” Jihoon replies, without bothering to look over at Dokyeom, who is once again, juggling Jihoon’s dildo collection like he doesn’t care where Jihoon sticks them, “don’t think you’re being smart sneaking your shit into my laundry. This is the last time.”

He hears the sound of a dildo dropping to the floor, and Dokyeom’s shoes drag across the ragged carpet toward the hamper.

“Oh dude—you ironed!”

“Last time, DK. I’m serious.”

“Absolutely, very last time, I promise,” Dokyeom grins. 

Jihoon doesn’t even spare the energy to roll his eyes, knowing full well he’ll do it again next week if not sooner.   

“What are you still doing here anyway? I’m gonna have a private sesh any minute.” Jihoon says, sitting on the edge of the bed to roll on a pair of blue and white thigh highs.

“I thought I’d sit and watch.” Dokyeom says with a distressingly blank face. The façade doesn’t last long, and they both burst into laughter.

“Seriously—get the fuck out.” Jihoon says, waving him out.

“I’m going, I’m going.” He says, grabbing his rucksack off his desk and heading for the door. “Have fun!”

The door drifts closed, and Jihoon turns to desk to position his laptop just so.

When his laptop signals his private stream with Seungcheol has started, Jihoon makes sure he looks as put out as possible.

“Hey, Woozi. How-“

“Flowers? Seriously?” Jihoon interrupts, before Seungcheol can finish his sentence. “That’s it—I’m blocking you.”

He can hear Seungcheol fumbling with his microphone on the other side.

“Wait— _please_.” Seungcheol rasps. He sounds desperate, almost strung out, his voice even rougher than usual.

“You got one minute—I have a client waiting I actually want to chat with.” Jihoon improvises—because he _doesn’t_.

Seungcheol sighs. “I thought flowers would be an appropriate gesture. They’re a universal gift. They—ya know—represent beauty and the colour reminded me of you.” Seungcheol mutters, sounding sad and embarrassed, and making Jihoon feel like the biggest shit in the _world_.

He has to stare off into the corner and think angry thoughts lest he do something stupid like—give in or—hug the fucking laptop.

“It’s not that I hate flowers, it’s just that—I’m allergic to them.” Jihoon says, lying outright, and flashing his usual petulant moue the camera’s way.

Seungcheol is quiet for a little while, but then, to Jihoon’s surprise, he chuckles.

“Then—why are the flowers sitting on your bedside table?”

Oh. Well. _Crap-baskets_.

Jihoon stands still for a moment, a knot in his jaw, fuming soundlessly at the world.

“Well—what else was I going to do with them? I couldn’t very well throw them out.” Jihoon grumbles, sparing a glance at the flower arrangement he stupidly forgot to move out of sight.

He had obviously brought the flowers home with him—and _maybe_ stopped on his way home to buy a vase, and _possibly_ spent a good hour carefully positioning the vase on his bedside and fawning over the display.

They _are_ pretty flowers—but that’s besides the point!

“I’m insulted you think I would be bought with flowers.” Jihoon cleverly deflects.

He smooths a palm over his stomach, pausing only to circle his belly button with a fingertip. “Is that all I’m worth?” He murmurs, sliding on the velveteen voice he uses online.

Pulling on a coy smile, he stares up at the camera through lowered lashes with the kind of look that usually makes his clients hiss in frustration.

He listens as Seungcheol’s breath stutters out, and knows it worked. He can hear Seungcheol release a humiliatingly audible little sigh. “Just—let me try again. I’ll come up with a better gift tomorrow.”

Jihoon pouts. “If you buy me chocolates—don’t bother signing in again.”

“What’s wrong with chocolates?” Seungcheol asks, all innocence.

“Oh my god, you’re so predictable.” Jihoon says, and it sounds less annoyed and more fond than he meant it to.

* * *

 

“Oh good, you’re here.” Jeonghan smirks as Jihoon walks through the coffee shop door.

“You should get a PO box or something.” He says, handing Jihoon a surprisingly light gift bag with a little roll of his eyes.

“Okay,” Jihoon says gamely, taking tentative possession of the bag.

He knows immediately who it's from. There's no note this time, not even any writing on the gift tag, so Seungcheol must have given it to Jeonghan in person.

He moves towards the staff room without a word, planning on putting his gift away until he's back in his dorm room and away from judging eyes, but then Jeonghan blocks his exit.

“Go—open it.” Jeonghan spits impatiently.

“What—here? Now?”

“Yes—I want to _see_.” Jeonghan urges, poking at the gift bag impatiently. “First flowers, which—cliched as they seem—weren’t cheap. Do you know how much a hundred long stem La Perla Baby Peachy roses retail at? Jisoo googled it last night—they’re not even in _season,_ Jihoon.”

Jihoon shrugs weakly, he didn’t know _that_. He never gets flowers. He never gets _gifts_.

Jeonghan has a wistful look on his face. “And in my experience—the smaller the package the better the gift.” He says, gleefully rubbing his hands together.

“Is that what you tell Jisoo?” Jihoon says in his driest voice.

Jeonghan looks decidedly unimpressed. “Just open it.”

Jihoon grins, feeling shy and pleased and a bit silly, still, because — presents. Not his usual wheelhouse.

He pulls the gift bag open, not managing to stop the excited bite of his lip as he pulls out a small black box from a sea of tissue paper.

He shakes the small box, but the contents don’t budge, then pops it open and gasps. Jeonghan too goes satisfyingly gape-mouthed.

It's a watch, round silver dial with a gold trim, classy and elegant with a narrow clasp. He bites his lip again, runs his fingers along the engraved dial. 

"Woah." Jeonghan says.

Jihoon pries the watch out of its casing and drops it over his wrist, turning his hand to let Jeonghan manage the clasp.

He’s dumbstruck by the weight of the watch on his arm. He rotates his wrist, finding himself unable to think anything more eloquent than  _holy fucking shit_.

“I’m not familiar with designers, but I’m pretty sure that watch is worth more than the entire contents of my house.” Jeonghan mumbles.

Jihoon is hardly paying attention now; he realizes he is rolling up his sleeves and flexing his wrist, admiring the fit. "It’s—a bit much. Don’t ya think?" he announces, surprised.

Jeonghan looks at him impassively. “Uhh—You don’t want it? I’ll happily take it off you.”

Jihoon waves him off. He places the watch back in its box and stuffs it in his locker. On his break he stares at the bag for a long time, deliberating over what (if anything) he should do about it.

He’s feeling weirdly guilty if he’s being honest.

When Seungcheol has suggested the whole ‘Sugar-daddy’ thing, Jihoon thought at the time that humouring the suggestion wasn't such a bad idea. Especially if he got a nice steak dinner out of the deal, a luxury he  _never_ splurges on.

But that was _before_ he was gifted a thousand-dollar watch.

 _Yeah_ , okay—fine. He had joked that he was high maintenance but he never expected this.

He’s fucked—and not in the way he’d like to be.

* * *

 

Wednesday night finds Seungcheol back in Daegu for a meeting the next day. He’s back on home soil, but he’s far from happy about it.

The fact he is miserable over a guy blocking him on a porn site is an odd, new sensation. Yes, there are probably hundreds of other cam-boys Seungcheol could watch instead, but he wants Jihoon and it’s more than clear that Jihoon is no ordinary cam-boy anyway.

Seungcheol thinks about him constantly: What he’s doing now, what he’s wearing, and most maddingly, if he’s entertaining anybody else the way he entertained Seungcheol.

The whole business is beyond ridiculous, of course. It is, without question, the stupidest thing that has ever happened to Seungcheol, and splashing out on designer watches just pulls him deeper into his obsession with Jihoon…

And yet.

He finds he can’t wait to get home and get on his laptop to see Jihoon’s reaction.

He’s never been more nervous about giving gifts in his _life_.

“Hey.” Jihoon greets as the stream starts.

He’s more dressed down than usual; no thigh highs this time and sitting cross legged on the bed, wearing yet another faded band tee with ‘Sex Pistols’ on the front. Very fitting.

Seungcheol’s suddenly seized by vivid images of slipping his fingers up under the hem of Jihoon’s t-shirt, stroking all that soft skin over firm muscle. Maybe pulling Jihoon onto his lap and nosing behind his ear.

The distressed grungy style ‘ _Jihoon’_ adopts is a good look for him. Then again—Seungcheol can’t think of anything that wouldn’t look good on him. Jihoon cold wear a brown paper bag and Seungcheol would still wanna fuck his brains out.

“Hey—so?” Seungcheol begins eagerly, because Jihoon hasn’t started talking yet. He’s mostly staring at the corner of the screen with a quietly distraught look on his face.

Jihoon inhales deeply before speaking. “Can I get your address or something—I need to return this to you.” He says, his voice coming out a little cracked at the edges.

Seungcheol reels back in surprise.

“I—uhh. There’s a gift receipt in the box—if you don’t like it, you can change it for one you do like.”

Jihoon’s brows pinch together. He looks away and shakes his head. “It’s not that. It’s a cool watch. It’s just—too much.” He protests, somewhat surprisingly.

“Too much?” Seungcheol laughs. “It’s not. Not for you.”

And Jihoon blushes. Honest to motherfucking Pete  _blushes_. He shrugs, eyes cast down. He looks so young, so gentle, and Seungcheol feels a pang in his chest.

“It _is_ too much. I can’t walk around campus with a thousand-dollar watch. People are going to think I sell drugs.” Jihoon argues, looking adorably insulted by the very idea.

Seungcheol laughs at that—because selling drugs is so much worse than—oh, say—being an amateur porn star.

“Alright. You can return it to the store—keep the money.” Seungcheol suggests.

Jihoon snaps his head up sharply, a myriad of expressions flickering across his delicate features. “No—no, I can’t—no.” He stammers, fidgeting with his hands, looking everywhere but at the camera.  

Seungcheol’s stumped once more. He scratches the light stumble along his jaw, not fully understanding this impulse he has to soothe and reassure.

Half of him is bereft, the other half, relieved. It’s clear now Jihoon’s not some spoilt little brat lighting up about the flashiest accessories. This whole _thing_ is to prove a point, maybe _tease_ Seungcheol a little—not squeeze him for cash.

“Okay. I guess if you leave it at the coffee shop, I’ll pick it up tomorrow evening.” Seungcheol offers, and Jihoon nods quietly. He seems more relaxed, more confident now that Seungcheol hadn’t blown a gasket.

Seungcheol smiles despite himself. “Can I—get another chance? To make it up to you.” He dares to ask.

Jihoon brightens immediately. “Okay. That’s fair I suppose.” He answers with a tiny, nervous smile

“Awesome.” Seungcheol grins. He reaches over to tap out of the live stream, “Guess I’ll talk to you-“

“Hold on a sec,” Jihoon interjects quickly. “I’m not finished.”

Seungcheol leans back, moving his hand away from the cursor.

“While you’re here—I might as well give you a show. You are playing for this private stream after all.” Jihoon says. He crosses his arms and pulls his t-shirt over his head, letting it drop out of view before working on his shorts.

Seungcheol’s dick twitches in anticipation. After a second he says, “You don’t—have to.”

An eye roll in response. “I know I don’t. But I want to.” says Jihoon. His tone is light and sweet but something in it chills Seungcheol to the bone—this is too easy. There’s got to be a catch.

And—oh boy—there is.

Jihoon holds up a single finger. "On one condition.” He tells him, but again the lightness of his words is belied by the hungry intent that coats every syllable.

Seungcheol swallows audibly, his erection already springing against his zip. “What’s that?”

Slowly, slowly Jihoon leans forward. His eyes never leave the camera.

“You’re not allowed to touch yourself when you watch.” he answers.

“Uhh—what?” Seungcheol’s voice chokes off in disbelief. It felt like a remarkable feat, getting that many coherent words out in one go.

“You heard me.” Jihoon say, crossing his arms and raising an impatient brow. “You can watch—but you can’t touch yourself.”

“What makes you think I’d go through with that? I could just—agree and touch myself anyway and you’d never know.” Seungcheol says, indignant.

“Oh—I’d know.” Jihoon dismisses quickly, standing straighter. “And I don’t think you’re the kind of guy to lie about it either. You’ll do what I want.” He says. Although most of his face is off-camera, Seungcheol’s swears he can see him hide a small, private smile.

Seungcheol scoffs—even though he knows Jihoon’s fucking right. He’s going to follow through with every condition. _Dammit_.

“So—basically you’re torturing me? By denying me masturbation rights?” The second it was out of his mouth, Seungcheol knew it was a stupid question.

He already knows the answer's going to be yes.

Jihoon grins devilishly as he refocuses the camera on the bed. Seungcheol goes a little weak at the knees when he glimpses the variety of toys sitting modestly out on the sheet, and weaker yet when he realizes Jihoon’s planning on using _every single one of them_.

* * *

 

The next sixty minutes is the most excruciating of Seungcheol’s entire existence.

At first, he has to sit there in the darkness of his living room—watching as Jihoon or— _Woozi_ —introduces him to each and every one of his sex toys.

He takes each one in turn, inserting them inside his little hole, stretching himself and screaming with unadulterated pleasure into the camera. He’s clearly taking great pleasure in opening himself up in front of him—knowing Seungcheol isn’t jerking off to it and relishing in the power of it.

When he pauses and reaches for a string of anal beads., Seungcheol comes to the realisation that he’s only just witnessed the _appetizer_ to the torturous visual feast Jihoon has planned.

“Are you watching me daddy?” Jihoon says, starting to push a bead against his entrance. He’s perfectly poised as he speaks, using a tone of voice that wouldn’t be out of place at a dinner table, asking for the salt.

“Yes.” Seungcheol groans, forcing himself to watch, repeating _‘Don’t cry, don’t give him the satisfaction,’_ over and over and over to himself.

Jihoon wiggles the first one in, then quickly follows it with another, releasing a cut out— _'Ah’_.

Seungcheol had thought that he’d be willing to sell his left kidney to stop the chat, but he is damned sure now that he’d give ‘em both away for free if Jihoon would stop being such a blue-balling, unfair bastard and…..

Seungcheol tenses in his seat as Jihoon selects a second toy from his collection, the one he’d seen the other day: a large pink vibrating wand with a bulbous heart at the tip.

_Oh—God!_

_Oh—fuck!_

_Is he really going to….._

Jihoon flips the wand onto its lowest setting, sliding it slowly into himself alongside the string of anal beads already inside. He presses the tip in and out, whimpering with a soft little sound that has Seungcheol's eyes crossing.

Once his hole is clenching around the thickest part of it, he starts to fuck himself with it faster and faster as his body adjusts, cock bobbing with each movement of his wrist as he shoves the toy in deeper.

“ _Ahh_ —look at the toy daddy. Look at it stretching me.” Jihoon screams, angling his ass to the camera so Seungcheol can see each penetrative slide of it spreading him wide.

“Yes—I can see that.” Seungcheol grunts, his voice gripping the words as tightly as his hands are gripping the armrest.

Jihoon slides it in deeper, circling and twisting it inside. He moans and writhes on the bed—whimpering obscene things that have Seungcheol twisting, practically _ripping_ his hair in a combination of intense arousal and jealousy.

On the bright side, at least Jihoon’s not online showing somebody _else_ this.

“ _Yes_ — _hnnnyes_ —I’m so full. I can’t fit anymore in.” Jihoon claims, circling a proprietary finger over his pink slick rim.

Seungcheol whines.

“What do you think daddy? Do you think I could?” Jihoon asks, and then he is reaching over to pick up a silicone dildo off the bed with a smirk, the smug son of a bitch.

And that totally isn’t a whimper coming out of Seungcheol’s mouth as Jihoon starts working it in beside the two toys that were already there. That was a very manly moan, and Seungcheol would defy  _anyone_  to keep quiet when Jihoon demonstrates how he can fit a vibrating wand, a dildo and a string of anal beads in his ass in one go.

Nope. Nope. It’s not fair.

It’s torture, of course, having to sit there and just watch. It’s bloody masochistic is what it is, and yet Seungcheol can’t help taking some strange measure of comfort from Jihoon’s desire to tease him like this.

“Oh fuck. So fucking _good_! Daddy—are you watching? _Ahhnn_ —it feels so good.” Jihoon moans. His face is pressed into the mattress, ass up in the air as he uses both hands to tug and push the toys inside himself. He’s got three thick anal beads in already, quickly working a forth in with the tip of his wand.

He alternates between thrusting the dildo in and twisting it, hands working quickly to bring himself off.

“You could have had this Daddy—this could have been your dick inside me now. But it’s not.” He goads.

Seungcheol’s hands clench into fists. He’s shaking, shuddering with the effort of keeping still while his erection rubs wetly against the inside of his underwear with every fine tremor. He’s never been so turned on in his _life._

Releasing his grip on the toys, Jihoon rises and flips himself on the bed.

Flexible little thing—Seungcheol thinks, as he watches Jihoon lift and bend a knee against his chest to afford Seungcheol a better view of his abused hole. Holding his leg up with one hand, the other returns to grip the handle of the wand as he continues twisting it inside himself, now breathless with pleasure.  

“Such a shame— _ahh_ —really wanted your cock. Ah—ah—now you’re never going to get this. Going to play with my toys instead!” Jihoon teases.

Seungcheol groans into his fist, tempted to flip the table as much as from the desperation in Jihoon’s voice as from the words themselves.

He watches as Jihoon heaves himself up onto his elbows, swivelling his hips down against the wand inside of him over and over again, until he twists the bottom of it to up the vibrations, and gives a hoarse scream.

“ _Ahhh_ —yes. Watch! Are you watching me—ahh!” Jihoon pants, voice cracked and wrecked after almost an hour of moaning.

Seungcheol groans into the microphone and grits his teeth. “Yesss. Oh god.”

“Daddy—I’m so close. Gonna cum!” He squeals.

Jihoon comes then, spurting thickly all over his stomach, legs going slack as he twitches through his orgasm. He didn’t even have to touch his cock.

Then Jihoon seems to melt into the mattress for a minute, gathering his energy, before he lifts a hand and reaches between his spread thighs to pull out the toys—one at a time.

Seungcheol’s spent most of the last week wondering what Jihoon looks like wrecked. The answer: rather edible. He’s sweaty, gorgeously pink from exertion, chest still heaving five minutes after his orgasm, eyes closed in an expression of supreme satisfaction.

Seungcheol lets himself enjoy the sight, because it’s a nice distraction from his raging hard-on.

"Was that fun for you?" Seungcheol says, finally  _finally_  feeling the adrenalin ebb. 

Jihoon fights a yawn and hums in response. He doesn't look back at the camera, just lifts his head slowly and casts a regal glance around the room, his bearing curious and confused.  “Oh—I forgot you were there.”

“Like _hell_ you did.” Seungcheol scoffs, then lowers his voice to a teasing degree. “You love me watching you, don’t deny it. You’re very good at playing with your toys, but it’s my dick you’re thinking of.” He says, dialling up the thickness of his Daegu accent for maximum effect.

He doesn’t miss the shivery inhale Jihoon takes, the way his eyes flutter shut briefly.

It feels like a tiny victory, considering what he’s just been put through. Even that doesn’t last long.

Jihoon levers himself up and crawls towards the camera. “I’m blocking this account.”

Seungcheol wrinkles his nose. He begins to protest, “But, I-”

“And I’ll _unblock_ it if you succeed in making it up to me.” Jihoon says, looking straight at the camera; defiance, bravado, and desire mingle in his expression. 

The camera feed cuts off and Seungcheol’s alone again in the blink of an eye.

He should stay up and finish checking his emails, he knows. Instead, he closes the laptop lid and leans on it, forehead on his folded arms, breathing shakily and thinking,  _fuck—that boy’s got me by the balls._

And even after all this, even if Jihoon never again shows Seungcheol that dizzying interest from their first encounter—It hardly matters.

Seungcheol is stupidly, hopelessly, head over heels for him anyway.

* * *

 

Seungcheol’s not sure how he can fix this.

Honestly, he’s not sure there _is_ anything to fix.

Following his last conversation with Jihoon, Seungcheol realizes Jihoon really isn’t angry with him anymore, it’s more like he’s playing a tentative little game.

Rather than being annoyed by this, as Seungcheol probably would be with anyone else wasting his time at work in this fashion, he finds the thought actually pleases him. It excites him in a way he hasn’t felt since….forever.

He’s still at a loss of what to buy next. And now there are weird, unspoken rules he can’t cross so it’s not just a case of him throwing money at things.

He’s tried clichéd and cheesy, he’s tried extravagant and none of that worked.

Maybe Jihoon’s the sentimental type, but he hardly knows enough about the boy to get an idea of what a sentimental gift would entail.

He tries to think like a nineteen-year-old, but—Jihoon’s not just _any_ nineteen year old. He’s a very fit and earnest and talented and scowly nineteen-year-old with an extremely admirable little butt.

Their interactions have mostly been indirect in one way or another. And the only hints of Jihoon’s life he sees are his short few shifts and the coffee shop and whatever Seungcheol can gleam from his bedroom during their private chats. Which is not much: just a bed, a few music posters, a guitar leaning against the wall and a few vinyl’s sitting in a collectors crate, even though there is no turntable in sight.

Wait……

* * *

 

When Jihoon arrives for his shift on Friday, Jeonghan ushers him into the staff room, deceptively casual.

There’s a large parcel sitting on the table against the wall of the staff room.

“Big parcel this time, he’s really trying.” Jeonghan says, sounding strangely proud of Seungcheol’s efforts.

“I thought your philosophy was the smaller the package the better the gift?” Jihoon asks, unable to keep the flat hum of condescension out of his voice.

“Well—it’s clearly not _your_ philosophy. And the guy seemed—really _nervous_ when he dropped it off. Like—it’s an experimental gift or something.” He adds with a shrug.

“Oh—god. He probably bought me a sex toy or something.” Jihoon groans. Although, the thought of Seungcheol selecting vibrators for him to play with sends a shiver up his spine. 

Jihoon dumps his bag in his locker and steps back over to the table. He slits the tape and the brown paper wrapping falls away to reveal an ordinary cardboard box. Nothing is ticking so he cautiously slides off the top.

He huffs out a laugh when he sees the contents. A turntable, which has been encased in bubble wrap.

Jeonghan looks bewildered. “Uhm—okay. What is it?”

“It’s a turntable.” Jihoon says, carefully lifting the machine out of the box and setting it on the table.

“Don’t you have an I-pod?” Jeonghan asks, scratching the back of his head.

“This is better than an I-pod. I can finally listen to the collection I’ve been building.” Jihoon explains excitedly. “This is awesome. It’s really sweet.” Jihoon’s not sure what makes him say that. He feels himself flushing once the words are out of his mouth.

Thankfully, Jeonghan’s too busy nosing through the packaging to take notice of his verbal slip.

“What’s in the bottom of the box?” Jeonghan gestures.

Jihoon peers into the box to see a single padded envelope sitting at the bottom. He can't suppress the grin as he turns it over and sees the store sticker belonging to one of the few vintage vinyl record stores in the city.

“Oh—wow. Vintage.” He simpers, pulling out a ‘Genesis-Silent sun’ printed vinyl sleeve.

“Vintage? Isn’t that just a fancy word for old?” Jeonghan snarks.

Jihoon rolls his eyes. “You just don’t understand the value of things Hannie.”

“Well—Genesis though? I’ve never heard of em.” Jeonghan says.

Jihoon purse his lips, “Me neither. It’s probably a band he likes, something he wants me to try?”

Jeonghan hums disagreeably. “God—I hate those gifts. When people buy you stuff _they_ like—so they can have it back when you don’t like it.”

“Would you shut up. He’s not like that—he’s a nice guy.” It doesn’t occur to him what he’s admitted until Jeonghan chuckles, an unexpectedly warm and sympathetic sound.

“Look at you defending creepy stalker business man. You’re all soft for him now.”

“No, I’m not.” Jihoon grumbles.

Jeonghan nudges him playfully, “Go on. He works in that big shiny building across the road. Aren’t you going to go throw yourself at him?”

Jihoon half-smiles but doesn’t voice his agreement, too busy imagining what the Vinyl will sound like on his turntable, the little uneven places where the record skips and crackles. The record is a first edition—he can tell. There will be a rough edge of raw energy to the sound, like the music is newly composed, the ink still wet. It’s not the dull, flat sound from a CD that Jihoon knows. It will be — jagged, imperfect—and strangely perfect in another way.

Fuck—he’s so happy.

He’s never had a gift like this before.

Never had anyone who cared about the little pieces that made him— _him_. Most people only see value in what Jihoon can do to benefit _them_ , they would never even think to go looking for something like this. Something buried so far beneath the surface.

* * *

 

Seungcheol sits at his desk, glaring miserably at his keyboard and trying not to look up at his unobstructed view of the city.

Friday night is quiet in the office, and Seungcheol’s on edge, waiting for a notification in his inbox to tell him he’s been unblocked.

He’s got an outstanding offer to have dinner and drinks with Mingyu and a few co-workers, but Seungcheol doesn’t particularly want to socialize with anyone. Or leave his office.

He mostly just wants to sit there and wallow. But he is still rational enough to acknowledge that his wallowing is both unproductive and slightly pathetic.

If this doesn’t pan out—he thinks about taking a vacation. Maybe some time away from work and away from Busan would be good for him. Take in some scenery, procure some good weed, read one or two of the books that have been sitting on his coffee table for years, perhaps pick up someone slim and pretty and have himself a good ol fashioned exorcism fuck. 

When 9pm passes with zero notifications, he decides to throw himself a pity party and get blindingly drunk. He’ll do it alone in his hotel—maybe order ridiculous amounts of room service and come up with a new username to watch Jihoon online. Something creative and mysterious—something like—yard-long baguette.

Jihoon will never know.

He finishes the last of his paperwork and packs his briefcase, strolling over to the elevator with his jacket slung over his shoulder. When the doors slide open—Jihoon steps out.

Seungcheol is frozen in place. He’s pretty sure Jihoon doesn’t work here, he checked after he had that mid-day fantasy that felt really fucking real. Jihoon works in that coffee shop across the road. So he’s not supposed to be stepping out of elevators and sending Seungcheol’s heart into his throat.

But—he hasn’t started drinking yet, so this is real. This is Jihoon standing there looking at him. Jihoon is—looking at him, a little hopeful and a little scared and a little confused.

Oh—shit, maybe he’s lost? Did he wander up here by accident?

Wait, no. That doesn’t make any sense.

“Uhm—hey.” Jihoon smiles, his dimples deep and disarming.

For a moment Seungcheol’s heart thumps and his stomach clenches because Jihoon is impossibly beautiful, too perfect to be real, even — especially — all smiling and rumpled and soft with his hands pushed into pockets of a jacket at least five sizes too big.

 “A—Jih—Woozi.” Seungcheol corrects quickly, sounding surprised, but not unpleasantly so.

Jihoon’s dimples fade back into obscurity as his face grows increasingly impassive and serious, “You can call me Jihoon.”

“I can?” Seungcheol asks, voice soft, disbelieving.

“Yeah—it’s cool.” Jihoon says, a little sheepish, the tips of his ears pink.

Seungcheol runs a hand over his mouth, not sure what he’s supposed to do now that the moment is upon him.

Instead of explaining his presence, Jihoon licks his lower lip and glances around the sleek corridor curiously. “So, this is where you work?”

“Yeah.” Seungcheol nods, shifting his briefcase from one hand to the other.

Jihoon puffs out his cheeks and exhales slowly. “Looks—boring. Sorry.”

Seungcheol laughs. “It is. But, gotta make a living somehow. Not everyone looks good in denim short shorts and thigh highs you know.”

Jihoon smiles, licks his lips again and makes an obvious show of letting his eyes drop to Seungcheol’s crotch before meeting his gaze. “I suppose you’re wondering what I’m doing here.”

“Is it to block me in person?” Seungcheol asks hesitantly, which would be a total kick in the balls, if somewhat a _polite_ kick in the balls

Jihoon’s laughter bubbles up like champagne, clear and lovely.

“Yeah, sure. Like that would actually stop you from trying.” Jihoon says dryly. The sarcasm is familiar, but it’s tempered with a fond, teasing warmth. His expression, too, lacks its once-customary edge. He looks young, pleased, and relaxed. _Affectionate_?

 _Don’t get cocky_ , Seungcheol reminds himself. And then, as additional deterrent: _he literally has you by the balls._

“So, uhm—you liked the gift?” He asks tentatively.

“Yes, uhmm thanks. It was a really nice gift— _Seungcheol_.” Jihoon purrs, rolling the name over his accent so that the dips and curves of the word make it sound less like a name and more like a secret kept between them.

It takes every ounce of Seungcheol’s self-control to keep the raw, screaming ecstasy off his face. Fuck—he loves the way Jihoon says his name. It sounds different, coming from him; better. Beautiful, almost.

A relieved grin spreads across Seungcheol's face.

Then Jihoon is right in Seungcheol's space now. He’s peering up into Seungcheol's eyes from too close. The brush of fingers at Seungcheol’s jaw nearly make him flinch, but somehow—impossibly—he holds his ground.

“So are we going to just stand around here in the corridor—or…” Jihoon trails off and Seungcheol honestly doesn't know whether it’s a question, or a statement of fact because Jihoon's  _smiling_ , a white slice of distraction that makes Seungcheol’s stomach does a strange little flip that it really shouldn't be doing at his age.

“Or?” Seungcheol echoes.

Jihoon pouts, then schools his expression into something more playful. He reaches up to wrap his slim fingers around Seungcheol’s tie, tugging gently and pressing his body flush against Seungcheol’s chest.

“Or are you going to take me home— _daddy_.”

**Author's Note:**

> 1) poor Seungcheol.  
> 2) Guess what's coming next!  
> 3) I took a while to update this because I'm still recovering from a chest infection, sorry there are no reference pics. If you see any that inspire you...let me knowww!  
> 4) I have a general plan on how I want the series to progress, but if there any specific kinks you'd like to see, hit me up!  
> 5) thank you for reading and feedback always appreciated!


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